Chapter 163: I don’t know how to dance.

Damon slowly raised his head, still holding her arm with an irritating nonchalance, as if those words—”I’m not going to try to make you fall in love”—were such a subtle provocation that it would almost go unnoticed.

Almost.

Morgana froze for a split second.

Then she blinked, as if the entire sentence had pierced her defenses before she could raise a proper barrier.

“I don’t—” she began, but Damon was already chuckling softly.

“Relax.” He guided her a few more steps into the hall. “I’m just making you comfortable.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Comfortable…? You’re making me uncomfortable on purpose.”

“That’s comfortable for you,” he retorted, with that lazy smile, “because if I treat you like a demure, fragile lady, you’ll rip my throat out.”

She opened her mouth to curse him, but an orchestra began to vibrate in the hall, the lights dimming slightly as the blue silk curtains moved with the flow of people. Couples were already beginning to arrange themselves in the center.

“Damn it…” Morgana muttered. “It’s going to start.”

“That’s your cue,” Damon said, turning to her and offering his hand with irritating elegance. “Before some young nobleman with no good knees asks you out.”

She crossed her arms, trying to feign indifference.

But the Duchess watched from afar.

Other nobles whispered.

And Morgana knew exactly what they were imagining.

She’s alone again.

She’s lost control of the situation.

She’s worthless in her own house.

And then, with sheer stubbornness, Morgana placed her hand in his.

“A dance,” she repeated. “One.”

“Yes, yes.” Damon pulled her closer with unexpected gentleness. —Until you ask for another.

She stopped mid-step.

“I’m not going to ask for another!”

“Of course not—he murmured, moving closer just enough for his warm breath to brush her ear.” Because I’ll ask you first.

Morgana instinctively recoiled—a short step, yet still full of tension.

But Damon didn’t advance.

He just smiled.

A slow, teasing, satisfied smile.

The kind of smile that said: I know I’m messing with you. And you know I know.

“Damon…” she warned, in that voice she used when she was about to explode.

“Morgana…” he replied in the same mocking tone.

She tightened her fingers around his hand.

“I’m not going to fall in love with you—she declared firmly.”

He tilted his face, letting his expression soften. Dangerously.

“I didn’t say you would either.”

She blinked, confused.

He then gave a gentle spin, positioning her facing the room, her back to him. His hand landed on her waist with a certainty that lingered for only a second—but that second burned more than any prolonged contact.

“I just said I’m not trying,” Damon concluded with a wry smile.

Morgana turned her head to look at him over her shoulder.

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does.” He guided her hand upward, beginning to lead her toward the center of the room. “Because if I try… then you’d be in danger.”

She froze.

That sentence carried a different weight.

It wasn’t a joke.

It wasn’t provocation.

It was… honest.

Critical.

Almost intimate.

“You…” Morgana tried to regroup her words, but nothing sounded sharp enough. “…are an idiot.” Damon leaned close to her ear as they walked.

“And yet you’re still holding my hand.”

Morgana let go immediately.

“I’m not.”

He looked down.

She was still holding on.

“…Shit,” she muttered.

Damon grinned so broadly she wanted to push him down the stairs.

“Relax, darling.”

Morgana spun so quickly her skirt ripped open around her ankles.

“Damon.”

“What?”

“Don’t call me that,” she said, her voice faltering exactly where she didn’t want it to.

He stopped.

He looked at her with a different kind of attention—not the playful, not the teasing.

Something sharper.

More focused.

Almost… dangerous, but not in a physical sense.

In an emotional sense.

“Then don’t get all dolled up when I talk,” he replied, in a murmur so low only she heard.

She opened her mouth.

No sound came out.

For the first time all night, Morgana had no answer.

“Come on,” Damon said, taking her hand again, guiding her to the center of the dance floor, “or they’ll start thinking we’re fighting.”

“We are fighting,” she retorted, catching her breath.

“Then it’ll be the most interesting dance in the ballroom.”

And that’s how—Morgana furious, confused, too hot, Damon smiling as if he knew too many secrets—they entered the center of the ball.

Where everyone could see.

Where the Duchess almost choked on her own dress.

And where, for the first time, Morgana Arven realized that Damon wasn’t just messing with her…

…he was turning her world upside down.

The first notes of the waltz echoed through the hall like waves of silk, and Morgana forced her spine to remain perfect—impeccable posture, neutral expression, unwavering dignity.

Or so she tried.

Because Damon was grinning like a walking sin as he positioned himself before her.

His hand took hers.

The other landed on her waist with a lightness that made her skin restless.

His eyes were dark and… too attentive.

And then, the music swelled.

And Damon—

Misstepped.

It wasn’t an elegant slip, nor a restrained stumble.

It was such an obvious mistake that Morgana almost held her breath. He pulled to the wrong side, placed his foot where it shouldn’t be, and for a moment, it seemed he was going to collide with a passing couple.

Morgana’s eyes widened.

“…What are you doing?” she whispered, between disbelief and indignation.

Damon blinked innocently.

“Dancing.”

“That’s not dancing,” she retorted, taking a quick step to avoid dragging him into the disaster. “That’s a call to the gods of collective shame.”

He laughed.

He really laughed.

Quietly, quietly, as if the world were exactly as he wanted it.

“Is it that bad?” he asked, leaning slightly.

“You’ll rip my feet off if you keep doing that!” She tugged at his hand to straighten him. “Who taught you to dance? A drunken horse?”

“Nobody taught me,” Damon replied, and he even had the nerve to smile. “I never needed to.”

Morgana stopped for a second.

She really stopped.

In the middle of the dance floor.

He almost collided with her, but she held him back with an indignant tug.

“Seriously?!” She stared at him, eyes wide. “You came to this event, with these people, knowing there would be ballroom dancing… and you just… don’t know how to dance?!”

“I didn’t think it was necessary.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Morgana grumbled, readjusting her hand positions as if she were rearranging a clumsy suit of armor. “You just want to turn my life upside down.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Are you going to pretend you don’t like it?”

“Shut up and follow my rhythm,” she cut in, blushing, pulling him closer to correct his footing.

And that’s when she realized the real problem:

Damon didn’t know how to dance.

Really.

He was too strong with the lead, put the wrong weight on it, missed the mark, and seemed to rely more on reflexes than technique. His body had coordination—a lot of it, even—but not the refined, choreographed kind required by the waltz.

Morgana stifled a sigh of exhaustion.

“Okay… fine…” she murmured, taking the lead. “Let’s do this: I’ll lead. You just follow. No inventing anything. No improvising.”

He smiled dangerously.

“I knew you had that bossy side.”

“And I knew you had that incompetent side,” she retorted impatiently.

He laughed again.

She didn’t.

But… something strange was happening.

As the dance continued, Morgana felt that Damon was really trying to keep up. He observed her every movement, every weight adjustment, every turn—and learned quickly. Too quickly.

She turned slightly, testing a more complex step.

He almost got it right.

Almost.

Still, Morgana saw it.

He was catching her rhythm as if he were reading her mind.

“You…” she murmured, narrowing her eyes as they moved. “You’re learning?”

“Trying,” he replied, his voice low, his smile crooked. “You’re a good teacher.” “—I’m not teaching!” she said, scandalized.

“Yes, you are,” Damon tilted his head. “And you’re enjoying it.”

Morgana gasped.

“I’m not—enjoying it! I’m preventing you from killing me in public!”

“Hm.” He moved close enough that her forehead almost touched his. “Then you’re doing very well.”

She bit her lip in pure anger.

Or at least, she wanted it to be just anger.

Because… hell… dancing so close, with him trying to keep up with her rhythm, with that calm, confident breathing… was ridiculously comfortable.

Dangerous.

But comfortable.

“Damon…” she warned, trying to regain some distance.

“We’re just dancing, Morgana,” he murmured, guiding her through a spin that, surprisingly, he nailed. “You don’t need to run away.”

“I’m not running away.”

“Then why are you looking at me like I stole something?”

“Because you probably did—she retorted.”

He smiled.

“Not yet.”

She wanted to hit him.

She wanted to kiss him.

She wanted to throw him out the window.

All at the same time.

“Damon…” she said, taking a deep breath as she pulled him back into the rhythm of the dance. “If you miss a step again, I’ll step on your boot.”

“I promise to try not to trip over you,” he said, sincere for the first time.

She glanced at him sideways.

He really was trying.

And, when the music hit the chorus, Damon finally nailed three steps in a row—three—in rhythm with her.

Enough for Morgana to feel that, maybe, just maybe, he could actually keep up with her.

Even if he was the worst dancer in the ballroom.

Even if he was a walking torment.

Even if he was messing with her in a way no one ever had.

It was then that she realized the most irritating thing of all:

He was learning to dance.

Because of her. Just hers.

And Morgana felt her heart beat… harder than it should.

“Damon…” she said, her voice lower than planned. “If you step on my foot…”

“I won’t,” he promised firmly. “I wouldn’t let anything hurt you. Neither would I.”

She lost her rhythm for half a second.

Just half.

But it was enough for him to notice.

For his smile to widen.

For the Duchess, in the distance, to almost collapse at the sight of the two of them spinning together as if they had rehearsed for months.

And for Morgana to realize that the disaster of that dance…

…was turning into something else.

Something far more dangerous than clumsy steps.

Something she didn’t want—but couldn’t deny anymore.

And Damon?

He just kept smiling as if he knew exactly what was happening.

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